"Brother Paul," replied Dyram, hesitating--"brother Paul and--Well, it matters not, if you learn not from me, you will learn from others; so I will say it first myself--brother Paul and Simeon of Roydon." "Simeon of Roydon!" exclaimed the young knight, starting up, and lifting his hand as if to strike him; "and have you been villain and traitor enough to betray this poor girl into the hands of that base and pitiful knave? By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to have you scourged through the streets of Ghent, as a warning to all treacherous varlets." Dyram bent his brows upon him with a bold scowl, answering in a low muttering tone, "You dare not!" The words had scarcely quitted his lips, when, with a blow on the side of the head, Richard of Woodville dashed him to the ground. The man started up, and drew his dagger half out of the sheath; but his master, who had recovered from his anger the instant the blow was given, so far at least as to be sorry that it had been struck at all, looked at him with a smile of cold contempt, and raising his voice, exclaimed, "Without, there!" The archer instantly appeared at the door; and, pointing to Dyram, the young knight said, "Take away that knave, and put him forth from the castle, and from the band. He is not one of my own people, and unfit to be with them. He is a base and dishonest traitor, who betrays his trust. Away with him!" Dyram glared upon him for a moment without moving, then thrust his dagger back into the sheath, raised his hand with the right finger extended, and shook it at Richard of Woodville, with his teeth hard set together, and a significant frown upon his brow. Then turning to the door, he passed the archer, saying, in a menacing tone, "Touch me not," and quitted the room. CHAPTER XXXI. THE RESULT. "Perhaps I have been too harsh," thought Richard of Woodville, when the man Dyram was gone, and he sat alone in his chamber. "Surely that knave's conscience must be punishment enough. What must it be to think that we have betrayed a friend, violated a trust, injured one who has confided in us! Can Hell itself afford an infliction more terrible than such a memory? Methinks it were torment enough for the worst of men, to render remembrance eternal!" And he was right--surely he was right. In this world we weave the fabric of our punishment with our sins. As the young knight proceeded to reflect, however, his mind turned from Dyram to Sir Simeon of Roydon; and suddenly a light broke in upon him.--"It must be so!" he cried: "'tis this man has poisoned the mind of Sir John Grey against me. But that will be easily remedied."